


H. Granger & N. Black in "I Know Not Nepenthe"

by DocileBoy



Series: H. Granger & N. Black: Specialist Magical Services [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, fluffy mystery solving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DocileBoy/pseuds/DocileBoy
Summary: Hermione and Narcissa take on a new case from a parent referred to them by M. McGonagall.  Will they be able to unravel the mystery behind muggle men and women committing horrible crimes when they showed no prior inclination to criminal behavior?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: H. Granger & N. Black: Specialist Magical Services [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927825
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

I guess as Great Britain’s premiere breaker of curses, it reflected poorly upon me to occasionally wish a curse upon my business partner and significant other, but sometimes, under my breath, I cursed Hermione Granger. Terrible, awful, dark things. If she caught me at it, Hermione would laugh and tell me she loved me. She was utterly impossible to remain cross with, but there were times when her Gryffindor derring-do lead us into fraught situations without all the relevant information. Like now. It was infuriating, but every time, I followed along like a puppy, and I would continue to do so. Narcissa Black, utterly smitten and completely under the spell of Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age. I supposed I could have done worse.

I was sat with Hermione in a muggle cafe. She was listening intently to Joy Okeke, an officer with the muggle government’s Serious Organized Crime Agency, and the mother of a young wizard attending Hogwarts. From what I’d absorbed, she was an analyst who looked for patterns in violent crimes committed all over the country. That sounded like a job that would give Hermione fits of rapture. She was very detail oriented, my darling. 

I wasn’t really listening, but I was reading our contact. Surface level legilimency, focused on emotions rather than thought content, because there were emotions here that were not evident in the rather dry recounting Ms. Okeke was sharing with Hermione. That I was using legilimency at all would probably earn me a lecture later about violating someone’s privacy, but we didn’t know this woman, and after everything, I had learned to be cautious, much to the despair of my Gryffindor sweetheart.

I was focused on our safety, which for me, would always be paramount. Hermione could fill me in on what I’d missed later. Details were, after all, what she excelled at.

After my bit of emotional vampirism, I began attending to the conversation. Ms. Okeke was relating a series of events, wherein a man, a father, had taken his two grammar school age children on a two night camp holiday in New Forest National Park near Southampton. Something had happened on the first night, and the next day, the father, who had no previous indications of psychological issues and was, based on the investigations and interviews of the muggle authorities, a kind man adored by his family and well liked in his community, had abandoned his children in the woods, leaving them with only the tents and some food.

“There was a massive manhunt,” Ms. Okeke was saying. “To find the children, which we did, and they were scared, but unharmed, thank God. And then to find the father.”

“Your letter said he’d gone completely off,” Hermione asked avidly. In our time together, working and otherwise, she’d shown a keen interest in the psychological effects of trauma, magical or otherwise, and I could see her mind racing, searching her memory for other instances of someone’s personality changing so quickly and so completely.

Hermione turned to look at me then, whether she could sense my attention on her, or if she wanted to include me in the conversation, I don’t know. Her eyes were alight with the excitement that only a new puzzle could engender in her. It made me smile. My smile turned Ms. Okeke’s face wary. Blasted Hermione and her adorable eagerness, now I would have to embarrass myself so this woman didn’t think me some sort of ghoul, pleased at the prospect of crime and misery.

I caught the woman’s gaze. Her brown eyes were slightly hard, and it was clear that the openness she felt towards Hermione was not extended to me. Hermione was looking between the two of us with a question obvious in her eyes. How did you manage to make things awkward, was what that lifted brow wanted to know.

“I’ve always found Hermione’s excitement when she encounters a new mystery to be very charming,” I offered cautiously. “Sometimes, due to the nature of work we do, her enthusiasm is the only bright point in an ocean of awfulness.”

That admission, perhaps a little more open than I had been aiming for, made Hermione color prettily, which would always be satisfying. She flashed me another questioning look. I was going to be in for scolding when we finished here.

Ms. Okeke was no longer wary, but she did look a bit startled. She cocked her head a bit and asked, “Would it be possible for you both to give me an idea of what it is you do? After I explained the situation to her, Professor McGonagall told me you could help me, but not much more. I’m also at the distinct disadvantage of knowing almost nothing about what an adult magic user is capable of, or how the magical government is structured, including law enforcement. Hermione seems to know quite a bit about my side of things, but I’m totally at a loss.”

Now it was Hermione who was grinning. I could only roll my eyes. Ms. Okeke had unknowingly stumbled into one of Hermione’s pet projects: educating the parents of muggle-borns about the wizarding world.

I checked my watch; this was going to be a longer conversation than we had initially thought, and should probably not be had in the middle of a muggle eating establishment.

“Would you be willing, Ms. Okeke, to adjourn this discussion to our home?” I asked, in my politest, most affable tone. “We can have tea, and,” I sighed here, sounding long-suffering, because honestly, I was, “Hermione has developed some instructional materials for this very topic.”

That made her laugh. I flashed Hermione a mildly triumphant grin that said: Awkwardness managed. Hermione rolled her eyes at me, long suffering herself, in a number of ways.

“You sound like I do when someone inadvertently triggers my husband’s classic automobile obsession,” said my new friend, finally sounding more comfortable.

“That,” I said, smiling, “sounds like an apt comparison.”

Hermione scoffed, then rose to head outside, assiduously ignoring me. Ms. Okeke and I stood as well and walked towards the door together.

“Did you just get yourself into trouble?” She asked, still grinning a little.

“No trouble that I’m not expert at getting myself out of,” I answered. “Besides, Hermione had a few pointed words for me last weekend regarding the state of my closet and my ‘fashion addiction’, as she called it.”

“Turnabout is fair play, then?”

I nodded decisively, then opened the door for Ms. Okeke and myself to exit the cafe. 

Hermione was waiting for us in a tiny, deserted side street that bordered the block of shops that contained the cafe.

“Go ahead, darling,” I said to her, meeting her eyes and smiling the tiny smile that she always seemed to elicit from me. “We’ll be along in a moment.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll put the tea on,” she said, then spun, and disappeared with a faint pop.

Ms. Okeke’s jaw dropped. I chuckled.

“Wizarding world lesson number one,” I said. “Apparition. One of several methods of travel that magic makes possible. Best for short to medium range travel.”

“That was amazing,” Ms. Okeke exclaimed, looking a bit like a child on Christmas morning in her excitement. “I mean, I’ve seen some magic on Diagon Alley, and Maro has told me about the things he learns in school and magic that the other students and teachers do, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Well,” I said, crooking my elbow towards her, in what I hoped would be an understood invitation, “are you ready to try it yourself?”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Side-along apparition, I’m told, feels a bit like a ride on a roller coaster.”

I stretched my magic out towards her again as she linked arms with me. She didn’t appear to be scared, just excited, and curious.

“Take deep breaths,” I instructed in the same tone I used to use when apparating with Draco when he was a child. “I’ll cast the spell, and start a spin, and you’ll feel a drop, and then we will arrive in the foyer of my house in Chalk Farm, alright?”

Ms. Okeke nodded. I could see she was taking deep, measured breaths through her nose.

“Here we go,” I said, and cast the spell, pulling us into the beginning of a spin, and we disappeared.

“Oh!” Ms. Okeke exclaimed upon our reappearance. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, taking a few deep breaths. “That was a trip! Can we do it again?”

Hermione laughed, silently vanishing the barf-bag she had been hiding behind her back. A smart precaution, honestly.

“After we talk,” said Hermione, “Narcissa will take you wherever you need to go.”

“I shall,” I agreed. “Now let us adjourn to the study, which I will warn you, Ms. Okeke, is in a state that entirely the responsibility of Hermione Granger.”

“You’re asking for a hex, Madame Black,” my darling sniffed, and turned on her heel. “This way,” she said. “The tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

After the war, and after my divorce, I had done quite a bit to distance myself from certain parts of Pureblood culture. As a single woman with an adult son, both of us navigating a changing relationship with the legacy of our families and the meaning of blood status, I no longer wanted to be responsible for a manor, I no longer wanted the pressure to arrange large gatherings of people who would love nothing more than to (metaphorically or physically) stab their host in the back.

After the frenzy of the trials and the daunting task of testifying in nearly all of them, I had taken some time to settle into a large (by London standards) townhouse near Camden Town. It was a quiet, muggle neighborhood, with normal neighbors, and moving here was one of the most fortuitous decisions I’d ever made. As the former wife of a Death Eater, and a member of an old and proud wizarding family, the act of physically removing myself at the end of each day from the weight of all the history and responsibility that fell onto me was an enormous relief. It continued to be a relief.

My house was a haven. Freed from the oppressive and ostentatious interior design sensibilities that had been a plague upon the first part of my life, I had made the space welcoming and comfortable. I no longer needed to impress or inspire awe or fear, only to make my family and circle of friends feel at home. Comfortable seating, soft rugs, plush blankets and as much natural lighting as I could manage with magic had been my aesthetic upon moving in. No crotchety portraits, cursed objects or decapitated house elf heads allowed on the premises. Magic had allowed me to add a large dining area, a working library, and to extend the master suite.

I was proud of this house. Everyone I loved was comfortable here, and based on Ms. Okeke’s reaction as we walked through the living room towards the study, even people I didn’t love were comfortable in this house.

“Is this what all magical houses are like?” She asked, peering up at the enchanted first floor skylight through which the early October sun was streaming. “Because I’m really wishing I was a witch right now.”

Hermione laughed. “No, this is Narcissa Black having impeccable taste, and the rest of us just benefitting from it.”

“I was more than willing to allow you to help decorate, my darling, but one cannot sit on a bookcase, nor can one eat at a bookcase,” I interjected from the rear.

Hermione laughed again, because she knew that her inclination was to ignore comfort in favor of more book storage, and she was utterly shameless about it. 

The study that Hermione was leading our guest to was as conducive to productive work as I could make it while keeping it cozy enough to curl up in with some tea and a novel. The outside wall was dominated by two enormous windows framing a sizable fireplace. Ivory painted built in bookcases circled the rest of the room and made the hints of sage green paint on the walls behind them seem like a lovely secret. There was a large table and a quartet of comfortable secretary chairs for working. At the moment, the table was barely visible under the diagrams and translations Hermione had produced for a recent project - intention based warding for a new wizarding nursery school in Glasgow. 

My research into the history of cursed hair implements had been relegated to the couch in front of the fireplace. And the coffee table. I used my wand to banish the lot of it to a table in the library. Ms. Okeke felt around the couch a little, as though wondering if the books and papers had merely disappeared, before gingerly taking the seat that Hermione had offered.

Hermione didn’t sit, but she did summon the tea tray, which materialized on the coffee table. Ms. Okeke gasped.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione exclaimed, flapping her hands. “It’s habit, and I forget. My parents always squawk at me for scaring them, and then fuss that I’m being lazy, not walking to the kitchen to get the tray.”

I sat in the armchair, closer to the tray, ready to act as hostess since Hermione would be talking, and definitely too in her element to worry about things like ‘serving our guest’.

“Milk?” I asked. “Sugar?” I took up the teapot and filled one cup, enjoying the simple ritual of it. I imagined that those two questions were probably the most common queries made in the British households, magical and non-magical alike.

“Just a splash of milk, please,” Ms. Okeke answered, watching me as I prepared her drink, adding enough milk to slightly change the color of the tea. She took the cup and saucer from me with a quiet thanks.

Hermione was still standing, and had taken her wand out. “Accio ministry charts,” she said. A few seconds later, two large rolls of butcher paper floated into the study from the library. Ms. Okeke murmured in appreciation. A gentle ‘accio’ was impressive and only scary when the caster had poor control and summoned objects began whizzing towards one’s head. 

Hermione had retained the nonmagical habit of using large rolls of paper for certain types of academic work. Over the years, our walls had been decorated with detailed warding diagrams, extensive rune translations, timelines, the results of trial and error testing, and sometimes, a game she called ‘hangman’. Wizarding parchment, she argued, especially the long rolls that would be required for big projects, was expensive. Why waste time, energy, and worry on errors made on expensive parchment when you could scratch and sketch to your heart’s content on cheap paper?

Hermione used more magic to unroll one of the diagrams and float it in the air in front of the fireplace. It showed a hierarchical tree of the Ministry of Magic’s internal organization, from the Minister himself all the way down to the caretakers who kept the massive, mysterious building clean.

“Ok,” she said, and rubbed her hands together. The opportunity to teach someone something brought out a certain sparkle to her eye. I watched as she began her explanation of the Ministry and its structure, beginning with the lower ranks of the organization, the base of the pyramid - a choice which was Hermione to the core. I prepared a cup of tea for her, adding a little more milk than she would use normally. It wouldn’t do for Hermione’s throat to get sore, if I could help it. I cast a gentle warming charm on the cup, and placed it where she could reach it. Then I sat back to watch.

Sometimes, in moments like this, when I was doing something that I would have never done, that would have never been allowed in my previous life, it took my breath away that so much had changed. That I was so happy. Sometimes, it felt imprudent how happy I was. Sometimes it scared me how integral this tiny, fierce witch was to my happiness. But presently, I was not scared. I was happy as I watched Hermione lecturing, the sleeves of her light blue cotton broadcloth shirt rolled up to expose strong forearms, tanned from field work, and tattooed with runic spells of her own devising. At some point, before she’d made her permanent return to Britain, she’d clipped her hair quite short on the sides and in the back, leaving a shock of glossy brown ringlets on the crown of her head that constantly flopped into her eyes. I didn’t know if it was by design, but that fringe of curls has always tempted my fingers, from the very first time I saw her again.

Lulled by the sound of her voice, the crackle of the fire, and scent of strong tea, I leaned against the arm of the couch, resting my head on my hand and tucking my feet up next to me. I half listened to Hermione as she progressed through the Department of Magical Transportation into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Ms. Okeke actively asked questions and for clarification about some of the sub-departments and how they related to one another, which only made Hermione more animated. Every once in a while, Hermione’s eyes would catch mine, and she would grin, eyes shining. I couldn’t help but smile back at her; her enthusiasm was practically infectious.

As Hermione had finished her explication of the Ministry and its labyrinthine bureaucratic nature, and was answering some questions about the Minister of Magic and their selection, I felt the wards around the house flex. Hermione felt it too, as her head whipped towards the foyer.

“Granger?” A familiar voice called. “Mum?”

Draco. Still calling Hermione ‘Granger’ to needle her, though there was never any malice behind it when they teased one another.

My son stalked into the study, wearing his gray Department of Mysteries robes and looking tired. It must be something serious for him to be working the weekend. As the liaison between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries, he organized material and manpower support for issues that overlapped between departments, assisted on projects in both departments, and served as advisor to both department heads. He had done so much to distance himself from his father and the events of the second Wizarding War, and I was so proud of him.

He stopped short when he saw the visitor on the couch watching him with raised eyebrows. Draco shot Hermione a suspicious look.

“Granger, what have I told you about teaching Muggle citizens to infiltrate the Ministry,” Draco deadpanned, curling his lips in the smallest hint of a smile.

Hermione merely glanced heavenward, ignoring Draco’s fabrications. I felt obligated to interject, since apparently neither of my darlings were feeling particularly burdened by social niceties today.

“Ms. Okeke, may I present my son, Draco Malfoy. He works for the Ministry, but not normally on Saturdays.”

“A pleasure,” said Ms. Okeke during my slight pause. She was watching Draco with some interest, not even bothering to conceal her scrutiny.

“Draco, this is Ms. Joy Okeke. She’s an analyst with the Serious Organized Crime Agency, and she has a son at Hogwarts.”

“That’s a relief, mum,” he said, and then he bowed to Ms. Okeke. Sometimes he remembered his manners. “Madame, I apologize for interrupting whatever you were discussing with my mother and Sherlock Granger, here,” he said, decorously, and winked. Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, and to take back whatever charitable thoughts I may have had about his manners. “But there is an emergency in Cornwall for which Granger’s prodigious talents are required.”

“Again?” Hermione asked, already rolling down her sleeves, her expression all at once very serious.

Draco nodded, his expression no longer playful. “Someone’s wee child stuck behind a devilish set of wards. No specialists from DEPMYS are available for six hours at the very soonest.”

Hermione finished buttoning her cuffs. “Alright, let me get my kit.” She approached me on the couch and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I closed my eyes and reveled in the scent of her. “You don’t mind finishing up here?” She asked, standing back and looking me dead in the eye.

“Not at all,” I assured her. Sometimes I think Hermione forgot that my participation in the adventures that found us was not solely my humoring her interests. I was not humoring her in the slightest. I mostly enjoyed the trouble she dragged us into. Together, we were quite capable of getting ourselves out of any trouble she might find.

She smiled at me, the corners of her amber eyes crinkling ever so slightly with the smile lines she was beginning to develop. I wanted to kiss her, a real kiss, but I merely smiled at her.

“Take care of one another,” I said, tearing my eyes from Hermione’s and turning to look at Draco. There was always the possibility of danger with unknown magic, and it always tugged at me when my two dearest loves were working together in such circumstances.

“Of course,” Hermione soothed. She would never scoff at my concern, though Draco might. He merely nodded.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your afternoon, mother.” Draco did look apologetic. “I’ll make it up to you.” He bowed again to Ms. Okeke and spun on his heel, heading back towards the front of the house.

Hermione turned her attention to Ms. Okeke. “I feel awful for running off like this,” she said. “Narcissa knows enough about the non-magical world that she should be able to review the information you’ve compiled and ask some preliminary questions.” She held out a hand for Ms. Okeke to shake. “It was nice meeting you. I hope we can help you to figure out what’s going on.”

Ms. Okeke shook her hand. “It was nice meeting you as well, Ms. Granger. Please contact me with any additional questions you might have.” 

Hermione bowed her head to Ms. Okeke, looked up to catch my eye for a long, significant moment, long enough to set my heart beating just a little bit faster, then turned on her heel and left.

“Well,” I said, watching her go. My gaze lingered on the door briefly. This, unfortunately, was the price of our competence. Emergencies that took her from my side, or me from her side. Some thought Hermione and I codependent, but we simply wanted to spend as much time with one another as conceivably possible.

I turned my attention back to my guest. “Do you have any more questions about the Ministry’s internal structure?”

She indicated that she did not with a shake of her head.

“Is there anything you would like to know before I explain how Hermione and I fit into this,” I waved my hand indicating the Ministry chart, “mess?”

Ms. Okeke narrowed her eyes at me ever so slightly.

“How old is your son?” She asked.

“Draco is 32.”

Ms. Okeke gasped. “You do not have a son in his 30s!”

I chuckled and asked: “You’ve met Professor McGonagall a few times, have you not?”

She nodded.

“How old do you suppose she is?”

“In her late 50s, perhaps?” It was clear that Ms. Okeke was unsure of her answer.

I laughed. “I’m in my late 50s. Minerva McGonagall is in her 90s.”

Ms. Okeke gasped again, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. She was silent for a moment, and I could see her brain working behind her intelligent brown eyes.

“I think that is the most surprising thing I’ve learned since finding out my son is a wizard,” is what she said, after contemplating how that piece of information changed what she knew about the wizarding world.

“Your son, more than likely, will live a long life,” I told her softly, smiling a little.

That made her smile. There aren’t many parents who wouldn’t be happy to hear their children would live longer than they expected.

Before the silence could become too awkward, and before Ms. Okeke could ask any more illuminating questions regarding the age of witches, I began an explanation of my and Hermione’s bona fides.

“Hermione and I are both employed by St. Mungo’s Hospital, which is the largest medical facility in wizarding Britain. It treats patients and conducts research into all aspects of the intersection of health and magic, and is funded partly by the Ministry, and partly by private donation and trust.”

The research arm of St. Mungo’s had been my haven since shortly after the war. I was given the opportunity to do useful work that suited my skills while completing the masteries that I had desired since I was a girl. I had become the hospitals foremost breaker of curses, and it was what I did within those walls that redeemed me to my peers, even more than lying for Harry Potter, even more than testifying against any captured Death Eater whose crimes I had witnessed.

After the war, there were an astounding number of people, civilians and combatants alike, suffering from curses or their aftereffects. I had devoted nearly all of my waking hours for that first year to helping anyone who would accept my aid.

Attention from the Ministry came after I published a paper in Cursebreakers Quarterly regarding the use of personalized potions in combating the lingering effects of curses. The paper was the culmination of my first Potions Mastery, and its publication signaled the end of my hiding away in the basement of St. Mungo’s brewing and researching, only venturing onto the wards to treat patients or consult with other healers. The Ministry began dealing with me directly as a consultant and expert, and my life in its current state began to take shape.

Ms. Okeke, as she had been all afternoon, was paying precise attention. She must have been aware my thoughts had meandered there, for a moment, but she didn’t say anything, so I continued.

“My specialty is in the breaking of curses, which, to put it simply, are malign magics that can effect person, place or object. Hermione is an expert in the making and breaking of wards, which are magical barriers. We’ve worked as consultants for most of the Ministry’s departments on cases involving strange magic. We’ve even done work like this before - determining if crimes have a magical component before the Aurors take over.”

That had been a hell of a case; an enchanted object wrecking havoc on the inhabitants of a residence hall at the University of Glasgow, though the object was no longer on site, and the malady like curse was spreading like some infectious disease.

Ms. Okeke was nodding, and I was relieved that my explanation of our work seemed to be making sense to her.

“My agency has similar arrangements with experts in various fields that relate to crime,” she offered.

“Excellent,” I breathed, glad she didn’t seem to want to dissect the precise of details of curses or wards or the intricacies of Ministry bureaucracy. “Perhaps you can tell me about the case, and then we can attempt to get a sense of how Hermione and I might apply our talents.”

Ms. Okeke put her teacup down on the table in front of her, then leaned back, giving me an appraising look. After such an odd afternoon, it was unclear what sort of appraisal I was being subjected to.

“I live in Hampshire,” she began, “and this summer past, there was a story in the local headlines about a father who left his children - boys in primary school - alone, overnight in an isolated part of New Forest. They were found three days later after a massive manhunt, scared, but physically well.”

“That’s awful,” I said, meaning that word with every fiber of my being. No child ever deserved to feel unsafe. “What of the father?”

“They found him a few days later. He was sleeping in his car not far from Ascot Racecourse. He bet away all of the family’s funds he could get his hands on over a weekend.” Ms. Okeke rubbed her eyes. “But I know him. I knew him. For my whole life, practically. Thomas adored those boys and did everything with them.”

“There was never any indication of any instability?”

“Obviously, I didn’t live with him, but I know some of the signs, and I never saw anything in Thomas that indicated he had any mental health issues,” Ms. Okeke said, tears accumulating in the corners of her eyes. I reached over to her and grasped her wrist, unsure how I could provide some comfort to this woman I didn’t know very well. She touched the tears away with the fingers of her free hand, and continued to speak.

“But it’s not that he’s schizophrenic, or delusional, or completely divorced from reality. I went to talk to him before they took him to Broadmoor, and he’s gone completely cold. He knows me, he knows his kids, his wife, but it’s like he has no emotional connection to any of us anymore.”

“So he went into woods on a camping jaunt, and came out a sociopath?” I asked. The idea of someone or something being able to do this to people cause a shiver to run down my spine. Even at the height of his power, Tom Riddle could only amplify a person’s existing darker tendencies with any kind of speed, not create darkness out of nothing. Had he known of a way to completely cut people off from their natural empathy, he would have used it.

“After I spoke with him at the prison in Winchester, Thomas stabbed another prisoner in the neck with a sharpened toothbrush. The report said he did it because the man ‘looked at him queerly.’ HMPS transferred him to Broadmoor after a evaluation by a psychologist indicated a complete lack of empathy and a likelihood that Thomas will commit further offenses of the same nature.”

Ms. Okeke was crying in earnest now. It was honestly impressive that she managed to speak clearly while doing so. It wasn’t in me to allow her to continue crying uncomforted, so I rose from my spot on the armchair, and sat back down next to Ms. Okeke on the couch, sliding an arm around her shoulders. I could feel her taking great, shuddering breaths as she struggled to control herself. She leaned into me ever so slightly.

“Have you taken any time to grieve the loss of your friend as you knew him, or did you throw yourself into trying to find an explanation?” I asked, making eye contact with her watery, reddening brown eyes.

The consternation on her face at my question was all the answer I needed. I knew the personality type - I lived with the personality type - it wouldn’t have occurred to Ms. Okeke to take care of herself before attempting to find a solution to the problem of her friend.

“It is a special sort of hell,” I offered, keeping my voice soft and kind, “to lose someone so completely, and have them still walking around, haunting you, continuing to do harm.”

Ms. Okeke let loose one great sob before she clamped her mouth shut.

“You have to mourn your friend, Ms. Okeke,” I said, conjuring a handkerchief out of thin air and handing it to her. “Because even if what happened to him is magical in nature, and it can be reversed, the knowledge of what he has done is still something that everyone who loves him will have to contend with.”

“It’s not that I disagree,” Ms. Okeke said, still weeping. “It’s hard, missing him, being sad for his family, and being so angry with him, and also trying to find a way to help him.”

“Perhaps Hermione and I taking this on will help.”

“I hope so,” she sighed. “If it is magic, and he can’t be helped, I would like to make sure this doesn’t happen to any other families.”

“That would be ideal,” I agreed, “but we won’t know until we’ve gathered more information. Do you think you can tell me about the two other probable cases you found?”

It only took thirty more minutes for Ms. Okeke to relate the particulars of the two cases that she thought were related to her friend’s. A young woman studying social work at the University of Winchester, and the rector of a Church of England congregation in Basingstoke. She handed over three voluminous and, I was sure, exhaustive files that included complete background information and as much information as she could gather on the movements of all the individuals at the time of their change in personality.

We were back to a bit of awkwardness as the conversation reached its conclusion.

“Thank you for agreeing to look into this, Narcissa,” Ms. Okeke said, standing in the foyer, looking decidedly less at ease than she had been earlier. “And please thank Hermione for me, again.”

I nodded, attempting to appear confident. “We will be in touch about our plans to further the investigation. Now, can I take you home? Or anywhere else you would like to go?”

“I thought,” she ventured shyly, “that I might take a cab, so that I can have a long think about what you said regarding grieving for Thomas.” She smiled at me a little tremulously. “And if I start crying, it certainly won’t be anything a London cabbie hasn’t seen before.”

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be handled better at home?” Crying in the back of a taxicab is one muggle experience I’m glad to have not experienced. I had ridden in quite a few, and frankly, would rather be chased by a cadre of bludgers on a broomstick for the rest of my life. The bludgers would probably be less dangerous.

“Lord, no. I have three other children that aren’t away at school, plus a husband. I’ll be pounced on as soon as I walk through the door.”

“I see,” I stated, understanding that the luxury of time to unpack and unravel complicated emotions was not always afforded to parents of young children. Ms. Okeke watched me carefully as I took out my wand and conjured four additional handkerchiefs and presented them to her. I also summoned a headache potion from the stores in my tiny laboratory off the kitchens. I held out the small vial for her inspection.

“This is a headache potion, essentially the wizarding version of paracetamol. It has a little something extra for congestion and red eyes, if you end up needing it.”

She took the vial from me carefully, almost like she was handling something precious. She looked at me like I was something strange, indeed. Not unkindly, just like she couldn’t believe that I was offering her this small kindness.

“Thank you, Narcissa. I hope I won’t need it.” She tucked the vial into the pocket of the casual blazer she was wearing over her jumper.

I opened the door for her, and we stepped together out onto the front stoop. She looked around, up the street and down.

“Oh, I know where we are!” She exclaimed. “I’ll be able to catch a cab on Prince of Wales Road.”

She smiled again, waved, and started walking towards the busy high street.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing tomes on mind magics, but was unable to find any magics, accidental or otherwise, that resulted in a complete loss of a persons empathy or conscience. There were many instances of accidental and purposeful amnesia, varying levels of delusion, even instances of what seemed to be complete personality transplants, but no instances of a rapid-onset of what muggles call sociopathy.

Even in the darker tomes I reviewed, wherein unethical experiments on mind and memory were chronicled, divorcing a person from their sense of morality took time and a gradual escalation by the manipulator, or else the mind would rebel against the process. Pushing that process too fast resulted in a complete breakdown in the subject’s personality - essentially, the subject became non-functioning.

An owl interrupted my reading not long after the sun set, and I took it as an indication that it was time to do something that wouldn’t result in nightmares about the horrific experiments that had been carried out by wizards past.

The letter, a short note from Hermione, indicated that demolition of a wall was required to break through the wards trapping the child, so the rescue operation was taking longer than expected and she would not be back in time for dinner.

I felt my face shape itself into a frown. Hermione had not eaten since breakfast, and ward-breaking took a substantial amount of energy, especially if she ended up needing to use her tattoos to physically breach the ward. Not acceptable.

“Archibald,” I intoned softly into the quiet house. 

“Good evening, Mistress,” Archibald replied after popping quietly into being next to me.

“Hello, Archibald,” I said, smiling down at the wizened little elf. He had been with me and my sisters since birth, had helped me to raise Draco, had helped keep me safe through two wars, and helped me transition away from what constituted pureblood polite society after the second war. Now, he was essentially my steward, responsible for managing the maintenance of the remaining Black and Malfoy properties. Though he did cook for Hermione, Draco and me on occasion, to keep his hand in, he said. A few of his children and grandchildren assisted with the day to day upkeep of this house, though all of them spent a lot of time with the new house elf colony that was forming at Hogwarts.

As charming and effervescent as his family may be, Archibald was the most talented practitioner of elven magic I had ever encountered, which is why I needed him tonight.

“May I ask a favor of you this evening, Archibald?”

“You may ask a favor of me any evening, Mistress,” he answered smoothly, his large lambent eyes twinkling.

Archibald was a free elf, but I knew there was very little he wouldn’t do for me if I asked. It was a very dear wish that someday, he would tell me ‘no’.

“Hermione and Draco are who knows where attempting to rescue a child from behind some wards,” I explained. “Are you able to locate them and see if you could offer some assistance, and perhaps some sustenance?”

His eyes closed briefly and I knew he was attempting to locate Draco and Hermione with that sixth sense an elf developed through long association.

“I can, and I shall,” he said after his eyes popped open. “There are three others with them. I will provide them with a meal, as well.”

“My thanks, Archibald,” I offered. He inclined his head graciously, the tips of his enormous ears drooping comically as he did, interrupting the air of gravitas that the wise old elf always projected. Then he disappeared.

Confident that Hermione and Draco would be well looked after wherever they were in Cornwall, I set about attending to my own supper.


	2. Chapter 2

It was after 11 when I felt Hermione arrive through the floo. She made her way unerringly to the study where I was reading in front of the fire in my night clothes. Reading, but mostly waiting for her.

Wearing frock cut robes in a deep ochre that had been a gift from me, Hermione appeared exhausted. Despite this, her hair and eyes gleamed in the firelight, the gold in them glowing and lending her features an unearthly cast.

“‘Cissa,” she sighed, and I could see her admiring me. I was wearing a thick cashmere dressing gown against the late autumn chill, but beneath it was a chemise of black silk. Its cut wasn’t particularly daring, but it would be obvious to her that underneath the thin silk, I wore nothing else.

I beckoned her to me, laying my book aside, and she came, shrugging off her robes and tossing them over the back of the couch, then toeing off her short boots and kicking them away into the shadows at the edge of the room. One of us would probably trip over them before she remembered where they were and returned them to her closet.

She sat herself crosswise across my lap, and it was my turn to sigh at the solid realness of her. She was warm and smelled like the ozone of powerful wards, and salty sea air. She tipped her chin up for a kiss, and I obliged.

“My darling,” I breathed after Hermione had pulled away to tuck her face into the crook of my neck.

“Thank you for feeding us earlier,” she murmured. I could feel her exhaustion, that her reserves were depleted, and that she was mere moments from sleep.

I kissed the crown of her curly head instead of replying, and held her until she fell asleep in my lap. 

I waited there with her until I was sure she was deeply in her dreams, then cast a charm to allow me to carry her to bed. Hermione did not stir as I carried her up the stairs to our room, banished her clothing, placed her under the duvet of our bed and climbed in next to her. I slipped gently into sleep with her curled against my side.

I woke with her lips stamping blessings on my neck, as warm and sweet as a Sunday abed could be. Being like this with her, In the dim morning light, ensconced in our bed, felt like a dream. She made so many of my dreams into reality, like she was conjuring my subconscious into the waking world. Even as we supported one another professionally, or created a new spell or incantation or potion together, or published articles and presented research, it was the quiet, domestic dreams that were the most magical to me.

“I dreamed this,” I breathed, as her teeth caught my earlobe, my voice raspy from disuse.

She chuckled.

“You dreamed of dragging an unconscious, naked woman to bed! Narcissa Black!” She admonished. Then she applied her teeth, just so, to the place where my jaw meets my neck, and I moaned.

She laughed again, and kissed me, not chastely, heedless of morning breath or fuzzy teeth. I would accept a kiss from her under any circumstance. I ran my fingers down her back, settling my hands on her hips, then arched my body into her’s. Her moan was gratifying in a way that made me melt even more.

“Merlin, you are such a temptation, ‘Cissa.”

“It is my dearest wish that you give into temptation, my darling,” I answered. And so she did.

The second time I woke, Hermione was sitting up against the headboard, reading the paper, and the tea service was floating above the bed. I stretched, luxuriating in my sore muscles, and the sumptuous feeling of the sheets against my skin.

“G’morning,” I husked to her. Her attention shifted from the Prophet, to me.

“It is a good morning, ‘Cissa, but don’t think you’ll tempt me again, you saucy witch.”

“Your saucy witch,” I purred, and stretched again, my arms above my head this time, and she groaned at the sight of my breasts peeking over the duvet.

Hermione tossed the paper aside and shifted herself to lay next to me on her side. I shifted to mirror her position. For a moment, she just looked at me. I knew enough of how her mind worked to know that she was committing this moment to her prodigious memory; making sure all the little details of my sleep-worn face were sharp in her mind. If she were anyone else, it would be too much and I would feel self-conscious. But with Hermione, I knew this was how she liked me best: bare-faced and just waking up.

“Can I tell you something?” She asked, sliding a hand around my waist over the duvet and shifting herself a little bit closer. I hummed my consent, hypnotized by her soft brown eyes.

“I am quite desperately, irrevocably gone on you, Madame Black,” she stated, grinning impishly at me. I huffed at her silliness, amused. She had taught me how to be vulnerable with her this way, using humor while exposing her tenderest feelings.

“You’re lucky I feel the same way, my darling. I can’t imagine under what other circumstances I would entertain such ridiculous behavior.” Then, because I knew she would enjoy it, I rolled out of bed, and padded into the bathroom.

As soon as Hermione and I arrived at our office in St. Mungo’s on Monday, she sent an owl to Harry to solicit his aid in obtaining cover identities for a visit to Broadmoor Hospital to speak to our first potential subject.

While we waited for an answer, Hermione sat down to write her report regarding the rescue she had effected in Cornwall on Saturday, and I involved myself in research produced by one of my potion master colleagues who was in the early stages testing a potion designed to slow the progression of age related dementia.

When I looked up at the sound of a beak tapping at our tiny basement hopper window, the stiffness of my back and neck told me that quite a bit of time had passed since I had sat down to read. Hermione had tacked a large piece of paper to our office cork board and was sketching out a diagram of both the crypt that the boy had become trapped in, and the wards that had protected it. She had, over the years and with much practice, become quite a talented draftswoman. She was taking the time to add the crypt’s Gothic embellishments, as their placement had been part of the structure of the wards.

I stood and gave my neck a twist, hoping to relieve some of the stiffness. All I garnered for my efforts was the sound of my spine cracking, and a wince from Hermione, whose shoulders shot up to her ears in sympathetic discomfort. Neither of us were strangers to desk related aches and pains.

The owl, who was too large to come through the window, stuck his clawed drumstick into the room and allowed me to remove the letter. Relieved of his burden, he stuck his great, gaping beak through the window, looking for a treat. I took a piece of rabbit jerky from the jar on the window and gave the owl his due.

Taking the letter back to my desk, and sparing a nasty look for my antique and decidedly un-ergonomic wooden office chair as I sat down, I slit the top of the envelope with a wordless knife of magic. 

The neat script addressing the letter to me was an immediate indication that this was not a missive from Harry Potter, whose illegible handwriting was nearly as legendary as his inability to die.

“It’s not from Harry,” I said in Hermione’s general direction, knowing she would be anxious to get on with convincing Harry to provide us with cover identities. Silly witch.

I flipped the letter open and read. And then laughed. Hermione’s curious eyes sought mine out from across the room.

“I’ve been invited to Connor McLaggen’s All Hallow’s celebration, as his personal guest,” I informed her.

Her eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath her fringe of curls. She stalked over, stretching out a hand, and I placed the invitation in it.

She scanned it quickly, then tossed it onto my desk.

“What utter cheek,” she snarled, eyebrows furrowing over suddenly hard eyes. That would not do. I reached for her hand, which she allowed, and brought it to my face, kissing her palm. She cupped my cheek, trailing a thumb over my cheekbone and smiled at me, her eyes soft again.

Connor McLaggen, in his persistent, offensive and purposeful cluelessness, had spent the entirety of my relationship with Hermione assiduously ignoring that relationship. His most recent affront was to invite me to events as his special guest, and not only to events he was hosting. This summer past, he had invited me to accompany him to the Ministry’s Longest Night gala, an event to which Hermione and I had received an invitation for from the Minister himself. A single invite. For both of us. I didn’t even bother to respond to McLaggen. The presumption made me angry enough that I didn’t think I could do so in a way that wouldn’t be embarrassing for someone, and I didn’t know that Mr. McLaggen was capable of embarrassment.

“I told you four years ago that he wanted to court you, Narcissa,” Hermione said, moving behind me. She pushed my robes off my shoulders a bit, and began massaging the knots I’d inflicted on myself with the tips of strong fingers. I groaned. I felt heat blossoming under her hands, and knew she was using a physiotherapy spell she’d learned from some friends who played professional quidditch. She persisted until all the tension in my shoulders had been banished.

“Do you think some heat will help your neck?” she asked, and I nodded. Her thoughtfulness, and the true concern for my wellbeing and comfort sometimes left me breathless. No one had ever treated me with such tenderness, and for nearly five years, she had been doing so effortlessly.

With her warm hands at the base of my neck, rubbing gently and soothing away the ache borne of my own poor choices, I felt overflowing with love for her.

“A little harder,” I tried to say, but it came out like a needy whine. She obliged and I groaned again.

“We need to book you in for a massage, ‘Cissa, you’re very tense,” she observed, her voice quiet. As always, I could tell she was taking pleasure in being allowed to care for me in this small way.

We waited that way for a while, enjoying the closeness as the spelled heat in her hands penetrated the soreness on the sides of my neck. And because I should have known that it wasn’t possible for Hermione and I to have a less than professional moment in the office without having an audience, my son and Harry Potter walked through the open door at the precise moment that I was pulling Hermione down for a kiss to thank her for her infinite kindness.

Draco yelped and spun on his heel. Past experience with failing to knock had taught him (not terribly well, apparently) about the potential for missing articles of clothing, or clothing laying about that he would really rather not know about. The reflex to hide his eyes had been developed under fire, so to speak.

“With the door open, Mother!” He scolded, and I could see that he had a hand at his brow. I scowled. Harry giggled.

“Merlin’s saggy pants, Draco, it was just a kiss,” I exclaimed, the words popping out past my valiant internal attempts to let cooler heads prevail. Hermione snorted at my uncharacteristic outburst, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

“Lies!” He barked, waving his hands around dramatically, his back still turned. “Your robes are all disheveled, and you’re all flushed.”

“You would be flushed too after a very nice shoulder massage from your paramour,” I stated, lifting my chin, trying to appear like my own child, who wasn’t even looking at me, wasn’t attempting to scold me for kissing my girlfriend. Harry was doubled over, laughing, looking like he was struggling to breathe.

“Honestly, Draco, we hadn’t even gotten to the snogging bit yet, so I don’t know what you’re so worked up about,” Hermione added cheerfully, clearly hoping to add fuel to the fire. Whether she wanted Harry to laugh himself into actual respiratory distress, or to cause Draco’s head to explode was anyone’s guess. Maybe both.

Draco whirled around, glaring at both of us. “What if an administrator was giving a tour to a donor and walked in on that?”

Hermione shrugged and looked a little sheepish, but I glared right back at him. 

“Only staff are allowed in this office, after that idiot touched one of Hermione’s prototypes and nearly suffocated,” I reminded him. “The main laboratory has an observation deck for a reason - to keep rich dunderheads safe while they’re made to feel important by the administrators.”

Draco didn’t say anything else, just threw up us hands and turned on his heel, stalking out of the office, presumably headed towards the conference room that was maintained for the use of research division staff.

I looked at Harry, who was trying to recover from his laughing fit, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

“He’s in a mood,” Harry said, watching Hermione and I kindly. “Has been all morning, and no, I don’t know why. He’s been hanging around DMLE today, so maybe something with DEPMYS has him bent out of shape.”

“He’s going to put me in a mood if he doesn’t adjust his attitude,” I groused. Hermione put a placating hand on my shoulder.

“Whatever’s bothering him, it can’t be that we were kissing. He’s walked in on us doing much worse,” Hermione supplied helpfully, making Harry grin at her conspiratorially. 

“He told me about the kitchen,” Harry said, winking cheerfully. Hermione chuckled at him, but I groaned and covered my face with my hands, wondering just how many people Draco had told that he had walked into his mother’s kitchen to find said mother with her head between her lover’s legs.

“That was the day he learned his lesson about the ‘do not disturb’ that I added to our wards,” added Hermione, proud of the spell she’d invented precisely because family and friends had kept popping in while we were attempting to have some time alone together. It had been a bit of an adjustment for everyone involved, as I had had an open fireplace policy for many years before Hermione and I had begun seeing one another.

I squared my shoulders and straightened my robes. “Let’s go talk business,” I said, gesturing for Harry to precede me out of the office. “I don’t believe my dignity can take much more discussion on this subject.”

I settled next to Hermione at the small conference table. Draco was sitting across from me, his face still flushed; he was clearly struggling with something bigger than encountering Hermione and I nearly kissing in our office. I couldn’t imagine what had occurred between Saturday afternoon, when he’d been cheerful and charming, and today, that would have him so sullen and confrontational. Perhaps he would have lunch with me, so we could talk.

Harry took pity on us all and started the conversation. “Your letter said you’ve been referred a case that will require cover identities for initial inquiries to be made.”

Hermione nodded. “A Hogwarts’ parent is an analyst with the national Serious Organized Crime Agency, and she’s identified three individuals whose behavior is very unusual, and can’t be really be explained by psychology.”

“How so?” Asked Harry.

“Three people in the same UK county, within months, all having a severe psychological break that resulted in apparent sociopathy? The odds would be extraordinary. Not to mention that sociopathy is a disorder that manifests in childhood. One of three would have shown signs, at least.”

“But none of them did?” Harry questioned, looking concerned now.

Draco, who was more familiar with the magical damage that could be done to a mind, was aghast. “You’re saying that there might be magic out there causing rapid-onset sociopathy in muggles?”

“That is what we need to find out, and quickly,” I answered, and he nodded in agreement.

“Should DEPMYS look into this? We have Unspeakables with muggle law enforcement cover identities already in place.” 

The suggestion made my brow knit in frustration. I could feel myself frowning. 

“The few Unspeakables that could comport themselves adequately in a high-security muggle hospital do not have the legilimency skills to be of any use,” I snapped. 

The Department of Mysteries was a sore spot for me, despite Draco’s employment there. DEPMYS operated largely outside of the Ministry’s oversight. Not even the Minister knew who the Director was. And DEPMYS remained a stronghold of pureblood witches and wizards, largely because of the occlumency and secret keeper training that most pureblood children received starting when they could form complete sentences. Hermione and I had both been offered positions within the Department, but I refused to work for someone who couldn’t be held to account, and Hermione was of the same mind.

“And they would want you to consult anyway,” Harry added, grinning to relieve the tension, not allowing Draco time to pick up our old argument.

“Just so,” I agreed. “And I trust Hermione to not embarrass herself in a muggle setting, or behave in a way that will require mass obliviation of muggle prison staff afterwards.”

“They aren’t that bad, mother,” Draco groused, shooting me a dirty look.

“They are that bad, Draco. I’ve worked at least a dozen cases with them that required some interaction with muggles, and most of those ended with muggles being obliviated.”

“To me that indicates a lack of concern at the institutional level,” Hermione stated solemnly. Agreeing with my assessment, and also not about to get pushed out of an investigation that was referred to us, not DEPMYS. “Narcissa and I have never had to obliviate any witnesses or bystanders in the course of our work.”

Draco didn’t appreciate my criticisms of his department. I didn’t appreciate that a significant portion of his job amounted to reporting to someone whose identity he did not know, nor would he ever.

“So what do you need?” Asked Harry. “There are a number of muggle organization where we’ve cultivated contacts that can provide a cover identity for you to use while looking into this matter.”

“Something that will allow us to visit the prison and tromp around in the countryside to see if there were any environmental factors that contributed to what happened to these people.”

“That would be best,” I agreed. “And it should probably be one identity for both purposes. So we don’t confuse ourselves.”

“And in case we need to make use of SOCA resources,” Hermione put in.

“Hmmm,” Harry mused, clearly weighing the available options. “We can’t use the Hampshire constabulary - the local forces are too close knit. We have a contact at the Crown Prosecutorial Service. And one at MI5. I think either of those could work.”

“I don’t think MI5 is a good fit, Harry. The intelligence services always stir up so much talk. What about SOCA?” Hermione wanted to know. “It would be nice to be able to openly use our Ms. Okeke as a resource.”

“We don’t have a contact there. Perhaps your friend can make introductions, but cultivating that type of relationship takes time.”

“CPS then,” said Hermione. “Maybe some sort of post-conviction unit. It would give us more reason to be odd places asking odd questions.”

“I didn’t know you needed an excuse for that, ‘Mione,” Harry joked. “I’ll get back to the office and get the support team started on this. You two keep me updated on what you find.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione responded. “If you’re ready to get back to work, I’ll walk you to the floo.” 

The two of them stood. Harry nodded politely before leaving, but Hermione gave me a little wink. My darling was a mind reader, giving me a moment with Draco, to see if he was willing to talk.

Draco sighed heavily as the door closed behind the two friends. I just watched him, trying to get a sense of what his state of mind was underneath the agitation he had exhibited earlier. He squirmed, confirming that my powers as his mother were still intact.

“I’m sorry about earlier, mum,” he ventured. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Did something happen?” I wanted to go to him and hug him, but he could be touchy about accepting physical affection when he was struggling for internal control.

“I got a letter from Lucius,” Draco said, hissing the name like an epithet, his face twisting up with hate. Draco and I both had no contact and tongue tie orders against Lucius. He wasn’t supposed to be able to get letters out of the Carthage Wizarding Correctional Institute to anyone other than his legal representative. This was the third time he’d managed to do so, and it invariably caused Draco much heartache. Wanting his father’s acclaim had cost him so much as a boy, then finding out that his parents’ union had been magically coerced, and that his mother was not a willing participant in the marriage had done a lot of damage to Draco’s sense of self.

“Do you know how the letter got out of Carthage?”

“No. I notified the warden and turned the letter over to the DMLE to be checked for any enchantments.”

“If they can’t find anything, you know that Hermione and I would be happy to take a look at it. I don’t want him to have a way to contact you anymore than you do.”

“I know, mother. But you shouldn’t have to deal with this, not after what he did to you. I know how much dealing with him effects you.”

“It affects both of us, Draco. But we’re strong together, we have each other, we have so much now, and all Lucius Malfoy has is words.”

“It hurts me that there was a time in my life when I would have found his words compelling,” Draco confessed. “And now, every time he manages to break the law, once again, all I feel is disgust. For myself and for him.”

“You shouldn’t, my dragon,” I told him. “You survived a horrible war, and fought to change into a person you could be proud of. We both did.”

“Do you think he’s ever been capable of being something different?”

“I don’t know Draco,” I answered truthfully. “He had opportunities to make different choices, to make choices that protected you instead of putting you at risk, and he always chose personal prestige and what he thought of as family honor, even it was only honorable in the eyes of Tom Riddle.”

That made him sigh again, even though it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. “You’re the only reason I’m not a horrible human being, mother,” he stated, grinning a little now.

“That’s absolutely true,” I said, smirking. Draco’s tolerance for shared introspection on the topic of Lucius Malfoy had clearly been exhausted. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

“I think I’m going to pop home and see if Astoria and Scorpius are available. You and Hermione could join me.”

I smiled at his offer, pleased, and only the tiniest bit sad, that I was no longer his primary emotional relationship.

“Why don’t the three of you come over for dinner tomorrow night instead. Hermione and I have a few projects to finish up before we begin work on this new case, so we were planning on having something owled to the office. You know how horribly distracted we both get with Scorpius.”

That made him smile. “You and Granger are going to have him casting OWL level spells before he even makes it to Hogwarts. It’s a wonder that I don’t have Misuse of Magic crawling all over the property every day.”

He stood and rounded the table, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

“Please pass along my apologies too Hermione, and tell her what’s going on?” He asked, looking all at once like the uncertain little boy that he had been years ago. “I’ll talk to Astoria about dinner tomorrow and owl you.”

“I shall,” I said, and patted his hand. “And be well, my dragon.”

He nodded, and departed in a swirl of gray robes.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry didn’t believe me when I told him I’d have my revenge on him for making the name of my cover persona ‘Nancy Black’. I was still grumbling about it as we handed over our bone fides to the guard at the entrance to ward B at Broadmoor Hospital. Our identities had already been confirmed twice. Once when we had pulled up to the hospital’s car park in our borrowed conveyance, and again, much more thoroughly, before we were allowed out of the car park and onto the grounds of the hospital itself.

Hermione was a steady presence at my right shoulder as we were waiting for the guard to phone back to the office to confirm that we were permitted to be there. We had been told that there was an interview room in this block that would be made available for our use, and that we would not be entering the patients’ living areas.

I wanted desperately to grab hold of Hermione’s hand to ground me, but knew that I shouldn’t. I had never been in a muggle prison before, but had been to wizarding prisons, and had heard plenty of stories about wizarding prisons, and knew that showing any weakness or affection could lead to trouble. And our cover identities were merely coworkers, so it would not do to have Broadmoor staff wondering why Nancy Black, QC, senior member of Her Majesty’s Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate, would be holding hands with her paralegal.

My fancy title, and having Hermione along with me, were the only consolations in this oppressive trip.

The desk officer hung up his phone, and the heavy door in front of us clicked loudly, popping free from its frame so that we might open it and step through. We did and were met by a different officer on the other side, who smiled in that polite, but totally false way people have of smiling at official annoyances who could probably cause you professional trouble if they had reason.

“This way, please,” he said, and we followed.

The interview room was as uninviting a place as I had ever encountered outside of Azkaban. Cement block walls with the blinking red lights of muggle recording devices in the ceiling corners, a battered table bolted to the floor, and two chairs. There were heavy metal rings bolted to the table and the floor. Hermione had told me that our subject may be shackled and that shackles could be further secured to the floor.

The guard left us, going to collect Thomas Marcel for what was ostensibly a post-conviction interview. I didn’t actually need to talk to Mr. Marcel; I just needed to get close enough to him to determine if he had been exposed to dark magic. Even before I had begun working with curses nearly every day, I had possessed a sensitivity to harmful magic, likely due to considerable exposure. Now, after actively refining the skill, I could sense the remnants of a curse without even touching a cursed person or object. Our cover for my need to be within touching distance of Mr. Marcel consisted of a set of questions that Hermione and I had worked up after some research into the Crown Prosecution Service and post-conviction units. It should be enough to satisfy any curiosity Mr. Marcel and his keepers might have regarding our purpose here.

Waiting was awful. I couldn’t speak to Hermione about anything important as we were currently being surveilled. I couldn’t touch Hermione to ease my nervousness because of the professional limitations of our cover identities. I glanced over at her.

Hermione, who had leaned herself against a wall where she would be able to see both Mr. Marcel and me as he would be positioned at the table, was looking straight at me. I knew she could tell that this place had me on edge. Our eyes caught and held. She gave me the smallest, tiniest smile, one that would only be apparent on the cameras if the footage was put under serious scrutiny. I didn’t need legilimency to know what Hermione was thinking when she looked at me like this, and I let myself drown in her kind, brown eyes until footsteps and the jingling of metal on metal signaled the arrival of Mr. Marcel.

The door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man in what looked like pajamas of light blue. His hands were cuffed to a chain around his waist, and his legs were cuffed together, limiting the length of the strides he could take. Two prison officers flanked him, both large men, both looking wary, but Mr. Marcel took his seat without issue. One of the officers connected Mr. Marcel’s shackles to the rings on the table and floor, then they both stepped back to stand on either side of the door. We had been informed that because Mr. Marcel had made attempts to injure hospital staff and even his own solicitor, we would not be able to speak with him except in the presence of the prison officers.

I looked Mr. Marcel in the eyes and addressed him. It was time to discover if he was a victim of magic or some unexplainable, but otherwise mundane tragedy. 

“Mr. Marcel, I am Ms. Black, from the Crown Prosecution Service’s post-conviction bureau,” I said, extended my magic towards him as his attention focused on me. What I was doing was a bit more invasive than passive legilmency, but my objective was to take a brief inventory of any energies that existed within Mr. Marcel. “My colleague and I are here to conduct an interview with now that you have been sentenced and your appeal period has elapsed.”

He smirked at me. And as soon as he opened his mouth to reply, I could taste the dark magic in him like bile at the back of my throat. It wasn’t the stomach-churning utter wrongness that I had constantly lived with while Tom Riddle occupied my home during the war, but it was as awful and skin-crawling as anything my sister had inflicted on her victims. 

“Seems like a waste of time to me, lady,” he said. The sneer on what had once been a kind, smiling face was unnerving. The file put together by Ms. Okeke had contained many pictures of Mr. Marcel with his family, and it was clear, comparing the character of his face now to the photos I’d seen, Mr. Marcel had undergone some fundamental change.

“I tend to agree, Mr. Marcel,” I said, matching his contempt. I wanted to see if a change in his mood would affect the tenor of what I could feel from the curse. “Most of my, quite frankly, very valuable time is spent dealing with serious felons, not piss-poor fathers who weren’t smart enough to find childcare whilst they went to the track.”

Behind Mr. Marcel, the officers looked at one another in mute shock. No doubt they knew the particulars of the interviewee’s offenses and the threats that he had made. I made sure not to reflect any emotion back at him as his face turned purple. I could feel his rage, and scenarios so stark and detailed, in which he was able to stab me were pouring from his head. They came so fast and were so numerous and vivid that I was surprised the muggle guards weren’t able to see them. I could tell now that the dark magic in him was centered squarely in his mind, squatting there like an evil toad, fed by his emotions.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hermione’s fingers moving. She wouldn’t be able draw her wand in the prison, but fingerspelling a rune-based incantation for calm was within both her inclinations and abilities. I could also see the guards preparing to intervene if necessary; they appeared to be very aware of Mr. Marcel’s body language, and my disrespectful words had made his body tense visibly.

After Hermione’s silent spell hit him, Mr. Marcel relaxed again and sat back, watching me now with suspicious eyes. I wonder if he thought I was trying to rile him up so he would find himself subject to additional charges. 

Recalling the questions Hermione and I had drawn up, I started asking them. We needed to get back to St. Mungo’s and determine how we were going to remove Mr. Marcel from Broadmoor so he could get proper treatment.

Mr. Marcel declined to answer any of my fake CPS questions, not even when I gave him the opportunity to complain about the quality of his attorney, and whether he felt the CPS or his attorney had missed something that would have affected the verdict or his sentencing. He said not one more word before I told the officers to take him back from whence he came. They obliged, and Hermione and I left the interview room soon after.

I looked at her as we started walking back towards the checkpoint that had allowed us entry to the building, and she was watching me carefully, too. I felt like my eyes could burn right through her, so intent was I on communicating my need to get out of there with as much haste as could be managed. 

“Come on, then,” she said. As always, she just knew what I needed. She led me back through the locked door, back through the bleak grounds, through the metal detectors and the security that searched us to be sure we weren’t smuggling anything out of the hospital, back to our borrowed car.

Once the doors had thumped shut, and we were safe from being overheard, she turned to me, her expression full of concern.

“Are you alright, Narcissa,” she asked, reaching over to put a gentle hand on my thigh. “You got so pale when he started talking.”

“Could you feel it?” I questioned, clasping her hand in mine. My palm felt clammy against hers.

“I did, but clearly not as acutely as you did, sweetheart.” She chafed my hand between hers, reaching over to me awkwardly in the cramped car. “Do you need some chocolate?”

I nodded, closing my eyes and taking comfort from Hermione’s callused hands holding mine. The magic that was effecting Mr. Marcel had left an oily feeling clinging in my mind.

“We can stop at a corner shop on the way back,” I asserted. “A bar of Cadbury should set me to rights, but we need to get back to St. Mungo’s as soon as we can.”

“He needs treatment,” stated Hermione, taking her hands back and starting the car.

Hermione was obviously concerned about me, and on our way back to London, she danced a fine line between ‘solicitous’ and ‘hovering’ that was both heartening and slightly hilarious. She found a corner shop not far from Broadmoor and hustled in, imploring me to stay in the car and ‘take it easy’. Were it nearly anyone else, they would have gotten the sharp end of my tongue for implying that I was anything less than fully capable, but Hermione lived for opportunities to take care of me, and that feeling was mutual.

She came back from the shop with two large bars of Cadbury Dairy Milk and two bottles of chilled water. Honestly, I felt better just looking at her, the queasy feeling in my stomach had dissipated, though the slight sense of dread that was a common side effect of exposure to dark magic still lingered.

I took the offered chocolate, opened it, and dutifully bit off a large chunk, letting it melt on my tongue. It had been discovered, after the war, that exposure to and use of dark, harmful magics caused imbalances in the neurochemicals of the brain. For short-term exposure, like my encounter with Mr. Marcel, one could stave off the side effects by indulging in something pleasurable: some chocolate, sport, a favorite meal, an orgasm - basically, anything that released serotonin would help the brain rebalance itself. For people like Mr. Marcel, exposed to dark magic over long periods, treatment was much more involved, and sometimes, not entirely successful.

I took another bite of chocolate and glanced over at Hermione, who was concentrating on merging into traffic on the multi-lane motorway that would take us back to London. She didn’t have reason to drive often, and I knew traffic made her nervous, but I still admired her confidence. I would sooner take the risk of apparating myself, the car, and any occupants before I would pilot one at any speed.

Grinning, I held the chocolate up to Hermione’s mouth so that she need only lean forward a bit to take a bite. Her eyes flicked over to me, then back to the road.

“That’s meant to be for you, ‘Cissa,” she scolded playfully. 

“Take a bite, you need it too. And you did buy two bars.”

She rolls her eyes, but obeys, taking a large bite of the chocolate and sighing as the sweet hit her tongue. I alternated bites with her till the bar was gone, contemplating the work ahead - potential protocols for Mr. Marcel’s treatment, who among my colleagues to ask to consult on his care, how to handle his emotional wellbeing if his condition was truly treatable. 

I knew Hermione’s thoughts must have been running along the same lines when she broke our contemplative silence to ask: “This is going to be a tough one to treat, isn’t it?”

I made an affirmative sort of noise, happy to let her talk. It was part of her process, and listening to her often sparked my own insights. And right now, the sound of her voice was a balm even more than the chocolate had been.

As Hermione mused about the psychological implications of Mr. Marcel’s condition, and what recovery would mean for him and his family, I watched the autumn sun limn her hair in gold. Even her eyelashes were tipped in it…

…and I woke to a gentle hand on my shoulder, sliding up to cup my neck.

“‘Cissa,” Hermione said, her voice low. “We’re back.”

And we were back, in the small underground garage that housed the dozen cars that made up the Ministry motor pool. A recent addition, used by a fair few departments to better keep a low profile in the era of camera phones and video surveillance.

Hermione was smiling at me, face shadowed in the dark garage. A stark contrast to the sight that had lulled me to sleep, but no less lovely.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“Better,” I answered. I stretched my arms up as high as the cramped sedan would allow and yawned. “Hungry. Thank you for driving us. I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

She shrugged. “You aren’t a napper, so I figured you really needed it.” She let her hand trail down my arm lazily. “Shall I get us some lunch?”

“Perhaps enough for a group,” I suggested.

“Going to entice some co-conspirators with food, are we?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I countered, giving her my best coy look, fluttering my eyelashes. She laughed, and leaned in to kiss my cheek.

“You wouldn’t say that, but you would absolutely do that.”

“I would,” I admitted. “But that makes you my co-conspirator,” grinning slyly, playing up the notion of the crafty Slytherin co-opting the forthright Gryffindor in her schemes.

“Such a cunning witch,” she purred, kissing my cheek. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining and she looked so happy and almost shy that it prompted me to lean in for a kiss of my own, which made her blush charmingly. It had been nearly five years, but nothing about intimacy with Hermione ever felt stale for me. 

“Millie should be able to put together some sandwiches on short notice,” Hermione said, cheeks still reddened from unexpected pleasure. “Would you like chips or crisps with yours?” She asked, knowing that potatoes were a horrible weakness of mine.

“Do not speak to me of fried potatoes, woman,” I blustered, knowing that she asked because she knew as much as I did about the effects of dark magic on mood, and also knew of my unreasonable fondness for potatoes.

She raised an eyebrow at me and just waited.

“Chips,” I muttered, and she grinned, triumphant. “With that melty cheese.” That made her face fall a little. “And a Coca Cola.”

She sighed and shook her head. “If I’m going halfway across London to get cheesy chips for my best girl, I’d better be off. I’ll meet you in the conference room in about an hour, ok?”

We exited the car together, and Hermione headed off to return the keys to the motor poll administrator. I walked out of the garage up to street level and apparated to the St. Mungo’s entry hall, where I was immediately accosted by one of the hospital’s many junior administrators.

“Madame Black, excuse me,” they shouted, voice echoing in the marble-floored room with its vaulted ceilings. “Mr. Thornewood needs to see you immediately.”

I bit back a sigh, feeling my face tightening at the imposition. Richard Thornewood had been appointed as the hospital’s chief administrator just six months ago, and he hadn’t quite figured me out, despite very clear communication on my end. He kept stepping out of bounds; attempting to have me host fundraising opportunities, encroaching on my workspace with donors in tow, despite the very real risk of accident, and summoning me for various inanities. Much more of his attentions, and I would be forced to take my concerns to the hospital’s board. Sometimes I wondered what I had done to deserve the attentions of men like Richard Thornewood and Conner McLaggen; men who were unable to fathom the word ‘no’ from a woman, or thought their status and charm should overcome any objection someone might have to their attentions.

“I am unable to accommodate Mr. Thornewood’s request at the moment,” I pronounced, looking down my nose just the tiniest bit at Mx. Sterling, who was just a little too convinced of their own importance. They were new to the position of assistant to the head administrator of St. Mungo’s and had adopted too much of their boss’s authority as their own. “I am busy arranging care for a patient whose condition is quite severe.”

I stopped in my tracks, refusing to allow Mx. Sterling to herd me towards the lift that would take me up to the fourth floor, where the executive suite was housed. My muggle pantsuit would look out of place there - St. Mungo’s administration was, in so many ways, very conservative, and so very boring - but if Thornewood was demanding my presence on short notice, he could hardly complain about my attire.

Mx. Sterling appeared to be a little aghast at my lack of concern about their boss’s wishes, as though they had been anticipating a different sort of reaction, like this was Hogwarts and I was being called to the Head’s office for some trouble I’d caused, and refusal was not an option. That thought almost caused me to snort. Certainly not. And I still had actual hospital business to arrange.

“He said,” they stated officiously, like Mr. Thornewood’s desires were a trump card to everything else that went on here, “that you were to report upstairs as soon as you reentered the building." 

“Mx. Sterling, before you attempted to divert me, I was on my way to the dark magic ward to set up an emergency consultation with Healers Fern and Anker. We will also require the presence of Madame Fuller.”

Mx. Sterling began to scoff, like the very idea of running any sort of errand on my behalf was inimical to their very being. But I was not in the mood to appease this young magus’s ego.

“Either you visit these people and request their presence in the basement conference room in three quarters of an hour,” I stated imperiously, “or I shall continue on my way, and you can return to Mr. Thornewood and explain to him that you would not assist me in this small way, and therefore, he will have to make an appointment if he would like to speak with me.” 

Sterling scowled at me, clearly annoyed that I was not yielding to Thornewood’s status, but unwilling to go back to him with the news that he would need to schedule time to speak to me.

“It should not take more than a few minutes. Tell them lunch will be provided, and they won’t fuss,” I offered placatingly. I didn’t want Mx. Sterling to dislike me, but they did need to learn that there was more to interoffice politics than the gravitas of someone’s title.

“Fine,” they spat, and spun on their heel, heading towards the ward where those suffering from the effects of dark magic were housed, and where Saffy Fern and Carolus Anker had offices. I grimaced at the retreating back, hoping that Mx. Sterling would approach my colleagues with a little more courtesy than they had me.

The executive suite of St. Mungo’s was lavishly decorated, operating under the assumption that the appearance of luxury made donors more confident about entrusting their funds to the organization. I found that particular tenet of philanthropic philosophy to be rubbish, and had since my childhood when my father would drag my sisters and me around to the institutions that were so grateful to accept donations from the ancient and most noble House of Black. Over and over again, it had stunned me to step from a conference room or office that was decorated with expensive wood, fine fabric, and original art into an orphanage or educational institution that was bare of all decoration and any amenities.

St. Mungo’s wasn’t quite so blatant in its conspicuous consumption. The rune-woven carpets and magically upholstered furniture were all donations and somewhat old fashioned, provided by wealthy wizarding families as they updated the furniture in their homes. The art was the same - donated or on loan - and there was plenty of lovely art on the walls of the treatment rooms and waiting areas.

The people who were inclined to look favorably on the wealth displayed in these offices were the types of people I believed bore watching, and not for their contributions to the wizarding world.

There was a mirror hanging in the small vestibule that housed the lifts, an enormous gilt-framed thing that had been charmed to show the viewer in a wondrous scene. It was hideous, and I had suggested it be put in the playroom of the children’s ward for their amusement. Instead, the administration had placed it here to assault the eyes of everyone who set foot on the floor. Perhaps it served more use to them as a deterrent - people with any sort of taste or discernment would put themselves right back on the lift to escape the assault on their sensibilities.

I did stop to check my appearance in the mirror. After more than two hours in the car, and my negative reaction to the magic that was squatting in Mr. Marcel, it behooved me to make sure nothing was horribly out of place before storming into my ultimate superior’s office.

My hair was still neat in its dutch braid arching back from the crown of my head like a pale, golden dragon’s spine. But there were dark circles under my eyes that spoke of my encounter with dark magic, and perhaps to the sleepless night I spent worrying about the interview with Mr. Marcel. In my role as Nancy Black, QC, this morning, I had chosen to wear a well-cut pantsuit in deep charcoal. Underneath was a silk blouse in deep blue that on any other day would sharpen the color of my eyes, though right now, it was only drawing attention to the purplish bruises marring the delicate skin. One of the downsides of my very fair skin was that many hardships I suffered etched themselves upon my face in sharp relief. 

I cast a minor glamour to disguise the dark circles and lifted my chin. Today, I might not look like a scion of an ancient wizarding family. Still, if Thornewood was shallow enough to believe that he could take any sort of advantage of my muggle attire, he would deserve anything he got.


	4. Chapter 4

The door to Thornewood’s office was open, and of course, the desk in the reception area was vacant, as Mx. Sterling ought to be running errands for me. I walked in without knocking. Thornewood was behind the massive desk that dominated the office - another cast off from a wealthy wizarding family - reading from a sheaf of papers he was holding far too close to his nose. He looked up as I crossed the threshold and leaped out of his seat.

“Madame Black,” he exclaimed, rounding his desk, extending a hand eagerly. “What a surprise!”

I furrowed my brow at him.

“I was told that you required my presence post-haste. Your assistant made me very aware as soon as I returned to the hospital.”

Mx. Sterling had really gone too far, leading me to believe that I was required to interrupt my workday to dance attendance on this bureaucrat. At least Thornewood had the sense to look rueful or ashamed. I couldn’t tell the difference, as neither were expressions his face was familiar with. Since being installed as head administrator, Mr. Thornewood had been pushing my boundaries, which seemed to be a theme for pureblood men of a certain age in my life. But unlike Mr. McLaggen, Mr. Thornewood’s intentions weren’t romantic. He believed my professional priorities were short-sighted and that I could do much more for the hospital if I abandoned my research and treating patients and focused my efforts on fundraising. He thought that eventually if he was flattering and coercive enough, I would come around to his way of viewing things. I would quit first, but I hadn’t yet gotten that explicit with him. Perhaps I needed to.

“There was a potential donor I wanted to introduce you to, but that was this morning.” He leaned back against the desk casually, and I knew, somehow, that whatever would come out of his mouth next would make me want to smack him. Or curse him. Or both. “I was told when I inquired, that you and Ms. Granger were out together.” His tone was mild, but the arched eyebrow told me everything I needed to know. He wanted me to defend myself against the veiled accusation that I had skived off work with my paramour. Then he would allow me the opportunity to make up for not meeting whatever wealthy ne’er-do-well he had presumed to bring into my workspace. That opportunity would inevitably be attendance at a lunch or dinner with other wealthy ne’er-do-wells that may or may not want to contribute money to the hospital.

It was insulting that he continued to believe I was unaware of his attempts to manipulate me to participate in more fundraising activities than my contract and conscience obligated. Without hard, common-sense limits, the hospital administration would happily allow this job to expand into all of my free time.

“This is the second time, Mr. Thornewood,” I stated evenly, turning my back on him to take a seat on one of the armchairs next to the office’s large, marble-clad fireplace. “Since your tenure began, that you have implied that Ms. Granger and I were doing something untoward on hospital time.” I leaned back and crossed my legs at the knee - a much bolder gesture in this suit than it would have been in robes - and cocked my head at him. He had the sense to look a bit uneasy now.

“If my work ethic falls so short of your standards, perhaps we should call a meeting of the board and my direct supervisor, and an improvement plan can be implemented.” I gestured at the chair across from the one I’d taken. “Or you can have a seat and tell me how I might better accommodate your needs as director of this fine institution.”

The blatant flattery and my silky tone did not, as they would in a more reasonable man, set off alarm bells. I had never given Mr. Thornewood the smallest indication that I cared a whit for his needs, but he thought I would come to his office and let him dictate terms to me? He practically raced to sit down, unable to contain his eagerness to put me in my place or expose me to his genius plan for innovation at St. Mungo’s.

He took his seat and then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m so glad you’ve had a change of perspective about your participation in our fundraising efforts, Madame Black,” he said eagerly. “May I call you Narcissa now that we will be working together more frequently?”

Decades of practice was all that allowed me to hide my reaction at his presumption. I took careful note of the fact that he did not offer to allow me to call him ‘Richard.’ I don’t think anyone in the hospital had been granted that privilege, such as it was, while the vast majority of my colleagues used my first name with my blessing.

“Madame Black is my proper form of address, Mr. Thornewood.” I wouldn’t allow him to call me Narcissa once, not even in service to this charade. 

“My apologies then, Madame.” He rubbed his hand together slightly, unable to completely mask his glee that I was finally open to his fundraising machinations. “There are a number of donors, potential and previous, that I feel would be more responsive to your overtures. I would be willing to split the donor list with you accordingly so that each of us would be working according to our strengths.”

“Hmmmm,” I allowed, nodding placidly and letting him think I was considering the potential positives of this scenario. “What sort of donors do you think would suit my particular talents, Mr. Thornewood?” I bet I knew.

“Oh, you know that all the old pureblood families are always more comfortable dealing with one of their own,” he stated confidently, leaning back in the chair now that he felt assured of his success. I nearly laughed. Most of the conservative pureblood families would burn me at the stake before they would donate money to any cause I was championing. The moderate families weren’t hostile, but they were wary. That I would choose to divorce my husband, even accounting for his crimes against me and society as a whole, was something many traditionally raised pureblood witches and wizards had a hard time understanding. It was clear that Mr. Thornewood had absolutely no understanding of my actual value to the hospital, or in what situations I was actually useful in securing donations.

“And there are a few donors who I think would be more receptive to your solicitations, in particular. The wizard who was visiting this morning, for instance.”

“Oh? Does he have a particular interest in curse breaking?” I asked innocently, knowing that those who had a professional interest in my work invariably contacted me directly, which was how I liked it. The tactic that I was attempting to draw Mr. Thornewood into was a version of the Socratic method that Hermione liked to call ‘baiting stupid’, wherein one asked leading questions of someone who was acting the fool, hoping that by forcing them to explain themselves, they might reach some understanding of their own idiocy. Sometimes it worked - realization would be achieved - but getting one’s hopes up while using this method was never recommended.

Thornewood chuckled. “I’m not sure that he does, but he is an eligible bachelor with galleons upon galleons to donate whatever cause most catches his interest.”

“Hmmmm,” I muse. “Shall I endeavor to catch his interest, then? And just the bachelors?” My tone is pure syrup, sweeter than a sugar quill. Thornewood should be nauseated and on his guard, not chuckling again.

“A well-placed flirtation could certainly help things along for the hospital,” he agreed, ever so affable since it appeared I was amenable to his schemes.

“I cannot help but wonder what my paramour might think if flirtation became a part of my job duties.”

“Well, if it’s for the good of the hospital, she cannot object too strongly, can she?” He chuckled uncomfortably now. “She does work here, too!”

“She does indeed work here, too. And she may take issue with, in one fell swoop, losing her research partner and being subjected to her romantic partner engaged in flirtation with potential donors in their shared place of work.”

Now I had him squirming, vaguely aware that this conversation had spun out of his control, and unwilling to acknowledge that he had essentially asked me to prostitute myself to the donors he deemed desirous of my witchy wiles. Hermione brought as much prestige to St. Mungo’s as I did with her stellar international reputation and a curriculum vitae filled with well-received research and useful, popular spells. 

One of the issues here was that a significant percentage of the magical population simply did not take my relationship with Hermione seriously. Purebloods couldn’t imagine that I would forgo the security and prestige of another marriage to a wizard of my wealth and stature. Witches and wizards who identified more with Hermione couldn’t believe that she would shackle herself to someone older and more conservative. However, they were less concerned with the gender of her partner. And because we both possessed a degree of public notoriety, there were very few magic users in Great Britain that didn’t feel compelled to comment on our relationship. Sometimes to our faces, sometimes in print in any publication that would allow them to express their noxious opinions. The commentary wasn’t as frequent as it had been when we’d first been recognized as dating, but it still happened occasionally, just enough to keep the wound fresh. And there were the frequent offenders, like McLaggen Senior and the Weasleys, who felt doubly entitled to make their opinions known.

“I am also curious if,” I ask, my tone as mild as my vast experience attempting to reason with madman could make it, “after engaging in flirtations with donors and securing funds for the hospital, it would be me who receives the credit for my efforts.”

“I don’t think you’re taking me seriously, Madame Black,” Thornewood stated. His forehead was furrowed, and brows were knit in what I assumed to be displeasure, but truly, he appeared perplexed. Like he cannot comprehend that someone might fail to treat him and his opinions with the proper deference.

“Why should I take you seriously when it is clear that you don’t take my position at St. Mungo’s seriously?”

And there was the anger. His upper lip drew back ever so slightly in just the barest beginnings of a snarl before he controlled himself. I wanted him angry because I was angry. His suggestions were deeply disrespectful of me on so many levels, doubly so because it was clear that he had no understanding of the cards at play.

“I thought I was promoting you,” he said, and it was nearly a growl. “Giving you more responsibility.”

“Shepherding around lecherous wizards and hosting cocktail parties so that you can be credited with any donations I brought in is not a promotion,” I hissed, snarling myself now.

“I can see you are overwrought, Madame Black,” Thornewood retorted officiously. He made to rise from his chair. The anger of a witch was never worth a pureblood wizard’s time or attention, only his scorn. That was a lesson that I had learned as a child when my father repeatedly dismissed and derided my oldest sister’s anger at her lot in life. It was a view I neither tolerated nor adhered to at this stage in my life.

“Sit down, Mr. Thornewood,” I snapped, using my anger to fuel the wandless spell that accompanied the command. He plopped back into the seat, gaping at me, though I’m not sure if he truly realized I had used magic to make him sit back down. I stood and stepped closer, looming over him a bit.

“I’ll fire you for cause, Black,” he seethed, glaring up at me from his seat as my spell had temporarily overridden his desire to stand.

“You don’t have cause to fire me, Mr. Thornewood. Had you at any time since your appointment reviewed my contract, you would know that you do not have cause to fire me.” I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes at him. “According to the terms of my employment at St. Mungo’s, you do not have the authority to change my job duties, promote me, demote me, or fire me.”

I turned, took a few steps away, and turned back towards him, hands on my hips. I definitely felt at a disadvantage in this suit now. I wore muggle clothing regularly, but never at St. Mungo’s, and the difference was deeply discordant to my confidence. My robes, dripping with magic and precisely tailored, were a recognizable symbol of my status in wizarding society, of the magic and wealth at my disposal. Obvious symbols could help or hinder, depending on the situation. In this situation, I believed they would have been helpful.

Also, in my robes, I could grip the hilt of my wand in the hip holster I wore beneath them. I didn’t need it so much as it made casting easier and disguised my proficiency with wandless magic.

“I’ve spent fifteen years working here with four other hospital administrators. You are the only administrator that has failed to appreciate how I actually contribute to St. Mungo’s and instead focus on what you think I should contribute.”

“I mean no disrespect when I suggest that a lady of your stature might find herself a more fitting place working with the administrative staff and our donors,” he said, still placating, hands outstretched as if he was attempting to calm a wild animal instead of speaking to a colleague that he had angered.

“But you have disrespected me. You thought to offer me new terms of employment without having read my current contract. And you assumed that I possess even the slightest amount of concern for what you think the proper position for a lady of my stature,” I spat those words, “should be.”

I stepped closer and leaned in, so my face was too close to his to be strictly proper. But I wasn’t trying to be proper; I was trying to be intimidating.

“Did you ever think that if I wanted to be working in fundraising, I would be doing so? Do you think if I wanted this,” I swept an arm out, indicating the office with its ornate furniture and view of downtown London, “that I would have it, or something very like it?”

He didn’t answer, just watched me with wide eyes, like I might claw his eyes out at any second.

“Don’t attempt to interfere with my employment again, Mr. Thornewood. And I’m using the broadest possible definition of interfere. You should read my contract to inform yourself of what the consequences of any further meddling will be.”

I didn’t allow him time to compose himself and reply; I simply left. Mx. Sterling was seated at their desk in the antechamber, and I could feel their eyes following me as I stormed by, but I didn’t allow my gaze to waiver, proceeding back to the lift that would take me out of the rarified territory of the hospital executives.

I stalked down the basement hallway, feeling unsatisfied with the less than dramatic figure I cut in my muggle suit. Robes sweeping out behind me would do well to punctuate my mood. Thankfully, Thornewood hadn’t made me late for the time I’d set with Hermione. I only hoped that Mx. Sterling had actually done as I asked and notified my colleagues of the meeting.

The dank stone basement did nothing for my mood, but the smell of fried food and the sound of friendly voices that wafted out from the conference room did. The people who worked in the dark magic ward were my friends and had become Hermione’s friends as well. We all knew one another’s strengths and weaknesses, and together, we had saved many lives. Today, regardless of whatever trouble Richard Thornewood thought he could cause for me, we would begin the process of liberating Mr. Marcel from whatever darkness had so altered him. 

Hermione’s gaze caught mine as soon as I entered the room, her eyes sparkling amber under the dim, and her mouth stretching into a grin. I smiled back at her; I couldn’t help it - the reaction was practically pavlovian at this point - and honestly, just seeing her face made some of the tension I had been carrying since being ambushed by Sterling disappear. She was instantly aware that something was wrong. She could sense when my emotions were in turmoil as accurately as I could sense dark magic. My ability arose from exposure to dark magic; hers arose from her exposure to me. She had made loving study of me for five years, and as such, could interpret my face with ease.

She pushed back from the table and rounded the table towards me. Sitting next to Hermione, Carolus Anker was stuffing chips in his gob, eyes rolled back in ecstasy. But even in his state of fried-food induced joy, he was an observant shite and cocked a bushy gray eyebrow at the two of us.

“Better put the missus to rights, Granger,” he said, somehow keeping the half-chewed potatoes in his mouth. “She’ll work us all to the bone if ye don’t.” He winked. Anker was graceless, sometimes crude, had horrible table manners, but he was a brilliant healer and kind, if a bit mouthy.

“You are so tactless, Carol,” interjected Margaret Fuller, the hospital’s transfer coordinator. She was credentialed as both a muggle doctor and a healer, knew how the NHS functioned and was indispensable when dealing with muggle patients. “Narcissa is obviously distressed.”

Madame Fuller was also deeply empathetic in ways that magic could not quite explain. A form of aura sensing was our best guess. She also sometimes forgot that no one else was capable of sensing emotional states in the way that she was, which often led to humor. And embarrassment.

“Aye,” Anker snapped back. “That’s why I said Granger should put her to rights, Margie. Everyone knows one’s the best medicine for t’other.”

That pronouncement made me blush because truly, everyone did not know that Hermione had such a profound effect on me. There were those who thought our closeness was odd, remarkable for how unusual it was that we were rarely seen apart. Sometimes, witches and wizards my age projected onto me annoyance that my younger lover was so needy. Hermione encountered the same attitude among people her age, who assumed that my presence held her back or cut down on her opportunities for fun.

But none of that mattered because Hermione had slid an arm around my waist and was pulling me in for a hug. I let her, because these people were our friends and they were right that I needed a bit of Hermione to pull myself together.

“Are you alright,” she whispered, mouth close to my ear. 

I nodded, pulling her closer, scratching my fingernails through the clipped hair at the nape of her neck.

“We’ll talk later,” I whispered. “I don’t want to get these three in a bother.” If I bring up Thornewood and his idiocy in front of this crowd, the real topic of necessity would be forgotten.

I pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Did you get my cheesy chips, woman?” I demanded, grinning at the feigned outrage on Hermione’s face.

“Well, excuse me, Madame Black, for coming between you and your fried potatoes,” she said, stepping back and executing a short, mocking bow. “You’re lucky I put them under a stasis spell for you.”

We all chuckled. Mocking humor and sarcasm were the primary method of communication with this crew.

“You tell her, Hermione,” piped up Saffy Fern from the head of the table. “Don’t let her take advantage of your encyclopedic knowledge of local chip shops.”

“We each have our strengths,” demurred Hermione with a secretive smile that made Anker let out a soft hoot. He appeared to be too busy eating to comment further.

Taking my hand, Hermione led me to my seat and pulled it out for me like we were sitting down for dinner at a black-tie event. It made me smile. She presented me with my cheesy chips, and my Coke, and a spinach salad with a grilled chicken breast, and I smiled even more, because it was exactly what I would have ordered for myself to go with the junk food I craved.

“Thank you, darling,” I said, picking up a chip dripping with melted pepper jack. I placed it on my tongue and groaned the small noise enough to attract Hermione’s avid attention. Because I burned a lot of energy using magic every day, and regular exercise maintained my overall fitness, I could be rather cavalier about my diet, but I did try to regulate my intake of specific dairy products and sugar to keep my arteries in good working order. Witches and wizards had a longer natural lifespan than muggles, but not if they ate like Loius XVI and failed to care for their cardiovascular health.

The look Hermione shot me over her flatbread sandwich was a heated one. Anker, with his infernal observational skills, noticed and hooted again. Margaret chuckled.

“As much fun as it is to watch the two of you flirt over fried food,” Saffy snarked from her seat, “I’m sure you asked us here for a reason besides watching you make bedroom eyes at one another.”

Hermione and I both nodded vigorously. No flirting over spicy melted cheese here, just important business.

Hermione took up the narrative, beginning with our meeting with Ms. Okeke, explaining her position and what she’d found around Hampshire.

Saffy’s and Margaret’s expressions became more and more grim as Hermione continued, immediately understanding the implications if magic was involved in the actions of our subjects. Carolus, who was even more knowledgeable than Saffy and Margaret, didn’t look grim; he looked excited.

“Oh, I do love a mystery,” he crowed. “Magic must be involved if you’ve gotten us involved.”

“You’re such a ghoul, Anker,” groused Hermione, but there was a smile playing around her lips. She and Carolus were kindred spirits in their zest for problem-solving.

“Did you go visit one of the potentials this morning?” Carolus pressed, involved now, and eager to have his curiosity satisfied. “Is that why you’re in muggle drag?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at his less than sensitive turn of phrase, but answered. “We spent the morning at Broadmoor Hospital and suffered through endless security checks in order to get in the same room as Thomas Marcel.”

“And?” Asked Anker eagerly.

I took up the thread of narrative from Hermione, since it was my sensitivity that allowed us to make determinations regarding dark magic exposure without bringing someone in for a battery of diagnostic spells.

“It was immediately clear that Mr. Marcel is effected by at least class 3 dark magic centered in his brain,” I said, closing my eyes to let the sense-memory of looking into his eyes gain focus in my mind. I once again compared the feeling of what was plaguing Mr. Marcel wash over me, and compared that feeling to other dark magics I had sensed. It was easier to be analytical about it now, with a few hours distance from the greasy, creeping feel of it.

“There’s a decent chance,” I added, now struck by the similarities between Mr. Marcel and the Death Eaters who had spent significant amounts of time around Tom Riddle after his reincarnation as a snake-faced creature, “that this is class 4 dark magic, meaning that Mr. Marcel has become a malevolent artifact.”

“Which would mean that anyone he’s come into contact with since his exposure will need to be evaluated,” opined Margaret.

“And potentially, treated,” was my helpful addition. “Though if it is class 4, I’m most concerned with getting a team inside Broadmoor. Even contact-based transmission could cause serious disruptions with a significant population of disturbed individuals in close quarters.”

Saffy looked at me, frowning. “You lured us here with food to give us more work,” she groused. “Trapping us with delicious junk food isn’t sporting, Narcissa.”

“Who said I was trying to be sporting,” I countered. She stuck her tongue out at me, then took a mock angry, over-large bite of her meal.

“The first order of business will be to get Mr. Marcel here,” Margaret said, acknowledging that this would be her contribution to the situation. “It shouldn’t be too difficult, as Broadmoor is an NHS facility. Once you determine what, exactly, is going on with the patient, then we can talk about inserting a team at Broadmoor, and what kind of diagnostics and treatment they will be performing.”

“We’ll complete diagnostics and put together a treatment plan, then Hermione and I will make contact with the other two subjects, and begin our investigation into a potential source for this malignancy.”

“Why do you and Hermione get the fun bits,” Carolus asked, actually pouting at me. 

I gave him a look that I knew was exasperated, and he cackled.

“We might need some extra eyes in the future,” Hermione added in an overly sweet, falsely excited tone. “At some point, we’re going to have figure out what our subjects have in common. Lots of data review!”

“You certainly know how to ruin an old man’s fun, Granger,” said Carolus with a sigh.

“The fun can’t begin until we know what we’re dealing with,” Margaret sighed. She stood and banished the remains of her lunch. “I will begin the process of getting Mr. Marcel transferred here.”

“One of the warded clean rooms until we know different, please,” I instructed.

“Absolutely.” She smoothed her robes, nodded to all of us, and left, already focused on her work. These three were like that - they would joke and poke fun, but could immediately change course and hone in on what was necessary. It was impressive and appreciated.

Carolus and Saffy also banished their trash and stood. 

“See you both later, and thank you for lunch, even it was main bribery,” said Saffy, and left. Carolus chuckled. There was much he found humorous, but Saffy’s put on prickliness was a particular amusement.

“I’m working noon to midnight, Narcissa, so I’ll send a Patronus if our patient arrives during my shift,” Carolus began helpfully. His mild tone and excessively innocent expression let me know he was going to meddle. “Speaking as your healer, after dark magic exposure with no PPE, you should go home and do something that will flood your system with endorphins.” He wiggled his bushy bronze eyebrows and looked at Hermione, who squawked at him.

“Hermione and I are perfectly capable of managing our sex life without your helpful suggestions, Carolus,” I snipped.

Hermione groaned. “He just likes to make me blush.”

“And you do so with such vigor, dear Hermione,” he quipped, chuckling again. “And seriously, home for the both of you. I’ll make sure it’s squared away with the supervisor.”

I scowled at him. I had been planning on going home. It was standard procedure for uncontrolled dark magic exposure. I just didn’t like Carolus thinking it was his idea. He didn’t give me a chance to retort, and trotted off, tossing a wave over his shoulder in farewell.

Now that we were alone, Hermione leaned closer in her chair, resting her head on my shoulder. I let my head rest against hers and sighed, suddenly exhausted now that I was not on the move.

“Do you want to tell me why you were so upset earlier?” She asked, lifting her head slightly to press the softest of kisses underneath my jaw. 

“I do,” I answered, “but not here.”

“The beach? It’s a lovely day, and since we’re waiting, we might as well enjoy it.”

“Yes,” I said, and let Hermione whisk me away to Anglesey and the cottage we’d purchased together last year.


End file.
